I clasp my hands together, pace, and speak over Chad’s earth-shattering scream. “I think it was actually a really evil white girl who manipulated Tituba into a bad situation—”

“AHHHHHHHHH!” It tears his throat to pieces.

Now I’m laughing, and I’m the only one. “I think Tituba probably wouldn’t expect other human beings to be so trash to her for no reason.” I love to hear my own thoughts out loud.

“Maybe Tituba never wanted to be part of the play in the first place.” I pick up the book and flip through the old pages so they cast a breeze on my chin.

Ms. Kingston breaks for her desk like her life depends on it. At first, I think she’s running for the window to jump out, abandon the class to my terror, but then she reaches up the wall above her desk—the little silver button like an out-facing belly button that will page the front office.

Chad passes me while I wait outside the principal’s office. He’s on his way to the nurse, and he doesn’t even look my way because now he knows better.

A minute later, I’m sitting across from Mr. Ross. His hands are folded on his desk, and mine are in my lap. His forehead is a mountain of creases because I guess he’s perplexed by me.

“What am I supposed to do about this?” Mr. Ross asks, and his eyes flit down to the bloody pencil resting on a paper towel between us. “What do you propose?”

“I don’t know. You’re the principal—not me.”

He leans forward. “Well, my first thought is to call the police, but then they’ll say I’m racially profiling you. I’d really love to hear your suggestion for what you think is right.”

The world has not stopped spinning. I don’t know what Sawyer will do next, and there are bigger things at stake than this racist school and Mr. Ross’s reputation. Fuck his reputation and fuck his school.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

“I don’t know what you should do. You have to decide for yourself what you should do.”

Mr. Ross blinks in confusion or offense. “Excuse me?”

“Since it’s your school, and you’re basically in control of what happens to everyone in it, you get to decide.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m implying it doesn’t matter what I say. Chad started it and I defended myself.”

“Defended yourself? But you’re not the one who had this”—Mr. Ross picks up the pencil and drops it—“buried in your hand.” Mr. Ross recoils a bit from me, like he doesn’t know what I’ll do next. “What’s gotten into you lately? You’re behaving just like your brother.”